Pacing
by Kirby77DP77
Summary: John Watson always watched over Sherlock, telling him to eat and whatnot. But... he seemed to be much more protective now of his consulting detective. Post Great Game


I don't own Sherlock.

Pacing

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><p>They have asked me loads of times, and I can see the confusion in their eyes as I answer them with the same response each occasion. Lestrade, Sally, even Anderson in one instant have all asked me the same question.<p>

"Why do you pace at crime scenes?"

And every time I answer, "Because it's my job."

And I can see how valid an inquiry it is, after all, I never did 'pace' as they say. Usually at the crime scenes Sherlock and I went to, I simply knelt down next to my curly haired detective and offered my praise and medical advice when the situation called for it. Now, however, I had become paranoid. You would be too if you had been strapped to some semtex by a psychopath in a pool as leverage to blow up yourself and your best friend. Frankly, I had been terrified that night at the pool- not for my life- but for my high maintenance genius that stupidly walked through those pool doors.

I have a weakness for Sherlock, the endearingly (and sometimes annoyingly) childish man that he is, and at that moment in the pool when a red sniper dot appeared on his forehead, I had become protective. Of course, I have always been watching over Sherlock, but now the level had increased. There was a need to know where he was and that he was safe in a completely non stalker way.

Because honestly, if anything were to happen to him, to his fair skinned consulting detective… Well, let us just say that whoever hurts Sherlock would not have time to run before Doctor John Watson returns the favor, so to speak. And it would not be pretty.

So, why the pacing? First, it isn't really pacing per say. I get to a crime scene, particularly ones outside, and I feel my battle reflexes come in. I scan the tops and insides of the buildings, looking for snipers first and then moving on to look for windows that anyone could shoot a gun or throw a knife from. Then, I glance down the streets and inspect any alleys from where I am standing. My eyes are everywhere and anywhere in an instant, surveying each person in the blue sterile suits to check for any anomalies. However, as I do this I tend to walk protectively around my crouching flatmate usually in a semi circle or at times in the open I pace in a close circle, never letting my eyes off of the land around us until I am satisfied.

I know I do this for several reasons. For one, I cannot stay still at a crime scene where the area has not been really looked at by someone with military service. After all, who is better? And second, Anderson assures me every time I walk into a crime scene that the area has been secured. Meaning, it is up to Mr. Incompetent's standards, which makes me nervous. There is no way on this Earth that I will leave Sherlock's safety up to Anderson.

One incident of my guard dog like behavior is particularly memorable, the first case Sherlock and I had taken since the Pool Incident. He and I approached the crime scene that was on the roof of an apartment building. I remember the blood was everywhere from a middle aged fat man on the edge of the roof. He had a large slice across his stomach and the scene would not have been too bad, as it was not the most disgusting death he had seen as an army doctor.

But then Anderson waltzed in and the disgust meter rose about thirty degrees. Sally and the little pompous man left his little forensic people talking outside the door to the roof came in with his nose up in a snob kind of way and walked past the Sergeant. He approached Sherlock and quietly after seeing my genius flatmate bent over the man on the very edge of the cemented roof, completely into his deductions.

It was then that I should have realized something was up.

I recall turning to Sally and speaking with her about where Lestrade was (downstairs) or something as unimportant as that when I turned back to my best friend in just enough time to see him be scared out of his wits by Anderson, scream, and lose his balance on the ledge of the roof. A blur of fear, adrenaline, and fury came over me as I dove to the rim of the roof with my strong arms out stretched and horror deep in my terrified blue eyes.

I caught him, thank God. We hung there for a moment, breathing heavily and relief present in both of our eyes before I hauled him up any asked him if he was all right. I had come so close to losing him and I was shaking as I turned to the man responsible for his almost death.

I committed to memory the furious growl of, "Anderson!" that I let loose. I spun around to the sniveling coward and grabbed his ugly blue suit and hauled him the wall on the other side of the roof. I lifted the significantly larger man (taller and wider) up against the wall with the muscles that no one seemed to think I have and stared him down. The malice started with, "If you _**ever**_, try something stupid like that again I will **personally** hunt you down and make your life a living _**hell**_. I don't need to kill you to make you wish I did. _**You come near him again, and I will not restrain myself, Anderson**_. Do you understand me?" I held him up there for good measure, giving him a glare suitable for the army before dropping him.

I would have walked away, too… until I heard, "I'm never going near the freak again."

Lestrade then walked into Anderson on the ground with a broken nose. His face was priceless as Sherlock told me later, but I was too furious to notice. My shaken flatmate spewed off his deductions about the body, asked Sally to explain the Anderson situation to Lestrade, and then grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the building to Baker Street.

It was the third time I heard Sherlock thank me.

And I know that Sherlock has noticed and appreciated my protective behavior even when he was not really in any danger. I suppose it reassured him also, and maybe it made him feel cared about. Perhaps it is the pacing at crime scenes or maybe it is the answer I consistently give the people who ask me why I pace. Or maybe it is the way I go to bed a few hours later just to shorten the margin of time I am away from the lithe consulting detective. But I know that I need to protect this man from Anderson, from danger, and from himself at times.

I am, after all, his doctor.

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><p><em><strong>So yeah, this sort of just popped into my head. A little oneshot as I rewatch the unaired pilot episode along with the Blind Banker and the Great Game.<strong>_

_**So what do you guys think? Was everyone in character? Was it okay? Was it awful? Did it flow okay? Please let me know!**_

_**kirby**_


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